Fire from Heaven
by UnsureHistorian
Summary: A lone Blood Angel, seconded to the Deathwatch, prepares himself for his next mission. A short story, introspective and sad, but maybe - just maybe - a little uplifting.


It is always with me.

I feel it like a blind man feels the sun on his face - as a pressure, unseen but always felt: a force just behind the eyes.

I lie on the cold concrete of my bed, listening to the subdued hum of the watch-station's generators, and the gentle click of the station's recorders as they monitor and catalog some changing observation.

_What is my life?_

Still it lingers in the corners of my mind, like a cobweb just out of reach: a niggling presence, like a driving splinter in my mind:

The Rage; The Thirst.

I fight these things in the quiet when the tumult of battle is stilled; when the last enemy falls, my battle continues. I hold damnation in the palm of my hand – and I must clench it tight, lest it consume me.

May the Emperor guide me in these darkened watches of the night.

_My honor is my life._

I cannot sleep.

I sit up, my feet moving to rest on the cold, metal decking. In the corner of my cell stands a low wooden table, surmounted by an ebony statue of the Emperor and fallen Sanguinius. A small candle stub remains beside; I light it, and its feeble luminance shines brightly in the suffocating darkness.

_What is my fate?_

The gentle glow of the candle shades the features of our Primarch and our Emperor. Shadowy tears well from their ebony eyes.

I feel myself slipping away into blackness, my eyes telling me of the peril which threatens my soul – it is almost tangible.

_My duty is my fate._

Few of my chapter serve in these desolate regions. Commander Mordigael has been stationed in this sector for many years, but he is far away at Erioch, and I am here: a small station with little more room than is necessary for the maintenance of a lone Astartes and his equipment.

My lips move as I ask for guidance, for strength, but there is no surcease to my torment.

I step outside my cell and walk the cramped and acrid spaces of the station, grown so much larger by the blackness.

_What is my fear?_

Chaplain Andreus often told me, when I came to him disturbed by the Rage, that to experience the Blackness was a divine gift: a chance to experience the sublime presence of our beloved Primarch. Not something to be desired, nor wished for, but rather something to be understood and accepted as a part of the legacy left to us.

A legacy I must bear.

I wonder if I am strong enough.

_My fear is to fail._

The arming room: my armor stands here, painted black, with the sigil of the Deathwatch engraved in silver and gold upon its left pauldron. My chapter's blood-red sigil remains on the opposite shoulder, in order – so the tech-priests tell me – to avoid angering the armor's machine spirit.

I am alone in the night. Will I ever return to see my home again? My brothers? And if I do, will I still be one of them?

Starlight shines through the small porthole which pierces the armored hull of the watch-station: somewhere out there is Baal, my home – my brothers – lost in a sea of infinity.

The awful weight of the emptiness presses down upon my shoulders.

_What is my reward?_

Lights blaze to life, and the watch-station's voice begins to blare:

DEFENSE PROTOCOL ACTIVATED: DISTRESS SIGNAL DETECTED

TRANSMISSION REPLAYED

The pale green light of the pict-screen displays the transmission: a flash priority alert to Sector Command, originating from the planet below:

The Great Devourer is come.

There is no room for servitors or chapter-serfs on my watch-station; I arm myself – it is a tonic for the soul.

_My salvation is my reward._

I strap on my weapons; they are already loaded and ready. The magnetic holster on my thigh-plate clicks dully as it latches onto my bolter. I examine my chainsword carefully, looking for any pits or blunt edges; there are none.

The thick, heavy door leading to the drop chamber has been retracted by the station, and through it I see the heavily-padded interior of the drop pod. The reinforced retention bars shine dully in the harsh light of the sodium lamps.

_What is my craft?_

I hold my helmet in my hands, its green eyepieces staring up at me, and I see my face reflected in the armored glass. The Rage rises inside me and I beat it down, my flesh rebelling against my will. Slowly, shakily, I lift my helmet and slide it down over my head, connecting the seals, locking myself inside the armored shell. The Rage subsides, and my flesh calms; I become like my armor: pure, steady, unblemished.

I descend on wings of smoke and flame.

I am an angel; a fury; a bulwark against the darkness. I am the sacrifice which holds the horrors of the night at bay.

_What is my craft?_

_My craft is death._


End file.
